Unable to find an opportunity she sent Sis to tell him Ann had something to give him before he went away.
He came at once, and Mrs. Rutledge told him Ann was somewhere in the back yard.
He found her in the garden where a few peach trees were struggling into bloom.
"I've come, Ann," he said, stopping before her. "You sent for me, didn't you?"
"Yes, Abraham Lincoln. There's something I want to say to you before you go away. I've been holding it against you—but I want to tell you that I forgive you."
"Forgive me!" he said in astonishment. "What did I ever do to you that I should need forgiveness for?"
"Don't you remember the quilting-bee?" she asked, her face flushing slightly.
"And you forgive me?"—he asked the question seriously. Then he laughed. "Don't forgive. Forgiveness might tempt me to do it again. Just remember as I go away that I'm not afraid of wolves or bears or catamounts or snakes or Indians, or any living creature—except women. It's women I'm afraid of," and he laughed.
The flush yet showed on Ann's face and her voice was a bit unsteady as she said, "And there's something else."
"What is it, Ann?"
"I—I don't want anything to harm you. I want you to come back sound and well."
There was pleading in her eye and a hint of quaver in her voice.
Abe Lincoln regarded her thoughtfully a moment. Her blue eyes did not shift before his steady gaze.
"Why do you want me to return unharmed?" he asked.
"Because you are kind to the weak and forgotten folks of earth, and not many think of this kind: because I think often what the child said."
"What child?"
"The beaten and abused child of old Kelly that you saved from more pain."
"What was it the child said?"
"'God came,'" she said. "'And his name was Abe Lincoln.'"
There was an almost imperceptible twitching in Abe Lincoln's face.
"There are many children," she continued, "many suffering, sad and helpless ones who need a strong friend to help them. My father says you have a future. I want you to come back to your future."
"Do not fear for me. I will come back—to my future. Good-bye." And he held out his hand.
"First, may I pin a sprig of wild plum on your coat for luck? It's almost too early for them yet and I searched the thicket before I found this, which looks as if it had only half opened its white eyes, but it gives out its springtime fragrance to stir up happy memories and hopes."
Abe Lincoln held out the lapel of his coat. "Look at me, Ann," he said when she had fastened the flower there.
She raised her eyes. They were rimmed with tears.
Abe Lincoln stared a minute as if wholly unable to comprehend the girl; then he said: "Good-bye, Ann, take care of yourself," and he turned hurriedly away.
CHAPTER XVIII
"BOOKS BEAT GUNS, SONNY"
It wasthe tenth day of July when Abe Lincoln, who had for weeks been struggling through the swamps and forests of Michigan territory in pursuit of the fleeing Black Hawk, turned his face homeward.
The journey was made with many hardships. The remnant of the Company went hungry for days, and to make matters worse several horses were stolen, among them Abe Lincoln's.
A portion of the long way home was made down the Illinois River in a canoe. The most of it, however, was tramped, and it was a jaded, footsore and ragged ex-captain that arrived in New Salem the latter part of July.
Nobody knew he was coming, no preparations had been made for him, and when he went to his former home at the Camerons' he learned that, owing to an increase in the size of the family, there was no longer bed space for him, but that John Rutledge had said he could lodge at the Inn.
This was about the best news he could haveheard, and tattered and weary, yet with head held high and smiling face, he presented himself at Rutledge Inn.
His welcome here was hearty and genuine, every member of the family, even to Ann, trying to make him feel at home and all alike impatient to hear the story of his travels.
"Did you see the Indians scalp anybody?" Sonnie asked excitedly.
"No—but we got there after half a dozen had just been scalped. We came upon them in the early mornin' just as the red sun fell over their bodies. There were small, red marks on top of the heads. The men were scouts who had been surprised. One wore buckskin breeches."
"And did your men always give ready obedience?" asked Davy.
"Most of the time they did. Once I came near havin' a riot with them. An aged Indian bearin' a safe-conduct pass from General Cass came to camp. He was footsore, hungry and weary. The men did not want to receive him. They said he was a spy and should be killed, and they made plans to kill him. Just as they were about to proceed, their six-foot-four Captain arrived and stopped proceedin's. This angeredthe men. One of them shouted at me that I was a coward. I told him to choose his weapon and step out and we'd see who was the coward. This he did not do. The frightened old Indian was sent on his way in safety."
"It was a hard campaign for you, and with little results," Rutledge remarked.
"Hard, yes—but not without results. There are different kinds of results, you know, Mr. Rutledge. I didn't kill any Indians, but I had far better luck than that. I got acquainted with Major John T. Stuart of Springfield, who asked to be of service to me."
"What's he going to do for you?" asked Davy. "Give you a fine gun or sword?"
"Better than that, Son, he is goin' to let me use his books."
"Books!" Sonny exclaimed, and the boy's voice was so charged with disgust they all laughed.
"Yes, books," Abe Lincoln replied. "Rattlesnakes and panthers and Indians know the fightin' game and have weapons for the purpose, but this sort of fightin' will never make the world a better place to live in. If the world ever gets to be the kind of a place you ask God forwhen you pray, 'Thy kingdom come,' it's comin' by brains and hearts instead of by claws and fangs. You can't shoot sense nor religion into a man any more than you can beat daylight into the cellar with a club. Take a candle in, and the thick darkness disappears; just so give the people knowledge and their ignorance and intolerance and other devilment will disappear. I haven't lived so powerful long yet, but I have lived long enough to make up my mind that for the good of all mankind books beat guns, Sonny."
CHAPTER XIX
ABE MAKES A SPEECH
WhenAbe returned from his few months of service in the Black Hawk War, he learned that his political opponent, Peter Cartwright, had been making the most of his opportunity.
Abe Lincoln had announced his candidacy before he went away, but had had no time even to plan a speaking tour. Peter Cartwright had remained on his itinerary and had been speaking to large audiences. The weapon Cartwright had been using against his opponent with most telling effect was the implied charge that he was an infidel.
While Captain Lincoln had been gone from New Salem a minister had come to the hamlet to make his home, and was already one of the circle composed of Mentor Graham, Dr. Allen, William Green, John Rutledge, and other of Abe Lincoln's good friends.
Even before his return these friends had discussed the matter of religion as it pertained to the success of this candidate, and had decided, especially since Cartwright was making muchcapital out of the fact that Abe Lincoln was not a church member, that he should become one.
Accordingly he was called into council and the case set before him.
"It is not necessary that I go to the Legislature to keep my own self-respect," he said to them. "It is necessary, however, that I deal honestly with myself, and it would be neither fair to me nor to your society for me to become a member, since I do not believe as you claim to. I have no use whatever for a God that plots against innocent children and helpless women, encourages murder, that throws rocks down on honest soldiers and, as recorded, does many other foolish and wicked things which would shame a decent Indian. I'm familiar with the Good Book—too familiar to swallow some portions of it whole. Whenever you get together on the rule 'Love your neighbor' that Jesus himself taught, I'll join you."
"Cartwright is making much of your refusal to be counted with Christians."
"And by doin' just this thing Cartwright is provin' himself either ignorant of the Constitution of the United States or knowingly betraying it. Our Constitution stands forever forthe separation of Church and State, of religion and politics. If my common, everyday horse-sense will not let me believe in purgatorial fires, what has that to do with making Sangamon River navigable? If I haven't any better sense than to pray to an image, that's my affair so long as it is not allowed to enter into or affect my public policies, or I do not try to inflict it on someone else. This is what I make out of our Constitutional guarantee of civil and religious liberty. I haven't had much chance to go to school. I haven't had many books to study. But, gentlemen, I've eaten up the Constitution of our country and digested it a dozen times over. I may get its meaning wrong. I think I'm right. If I am, then Cartwright is wrong—just as wrong as I would be to campaign against him because he preaches hell fire and eternal punishment, which to me is as damnable a doctrine as my lack of such belief can ever be to him."
"Abe Lincoln," said John Rutledge, "I believe you are right. Stand by your guns. You may lose now but you will come out all right in the long run."
Abe Lincoln's first appearance on the stump in this campaign was at Pappsville, a small placeeleven miles west of Springfield. A public sale had been advertised and the young candidate thought it would be a good chance to get a hearing.
After the sale a friend who had accompanied him went about shouting, "Public speaking! Draw near! Draw near!"
The crowd soon collected, for every man was interested in a stump speech.
Hardly had the crowd gathered than a fight started and a general row seemed inevitable.
Seeing a friend of his being pushed about by the rough crowd, Abe Lincoln jumped from the platform, and, rushing into the crowd, began shouldering the excited men apart so that his man could get out. Finally, he pushed against a man who turned about and defied him. Without a word he grabbed the man by the neck and the seat of the breeches and tossed him a dozen feet. This act had a quieting effect on the fight and the fighters stopped to see what manner of political candidate this was who could pitch men about as a farmer pitches a shock of wheat.
What they saw on the rude platform was an unusually tall, ungainly and homely young fellow, who wore a mixed-jeans coat, bob-tailed andshort-sleeved, pantaloons made of flax and tow linen, a straw hat and pot-metal boots.
His speech was short. He said, "Gentlemen and fellow-citizens, I presume you all know me. I am humble Abraham Lincoln. I have been solicited by my friends to become a candidate for the Legislature. My politics are short and sweet like the old woman's dance. I am in favor of a national bank. I am in favor of the internal revenue system, education for everybody, and a high, protective tariff. These are my sentiments and political principles. If elected I shall feel thankful. If not, I am used to defeat. It will be all the same."
CHAPTER XX
STORY OF A BOY
Abraham Lincolnwas not elected to the Legislature. He received, however, every vote in New Salem except three, and his friends had hopes that he might yet develop into something—nobody knew just what.
Meantime some changes had been made in mercantile affairs in New Salem and the store of Offutt was no more. This left Abe Lincoln without a job.
An opportunity offered for him to secure a store of his own. A store owned by another man had not long since been raided by the Clary Grove gang. After drinking all the "wet goods," they broke the glassware, tied bottles to the tails of their horses, and with a whoop and a yell went riding about the country.
Abe Lincoln had no money, but with a young fellow named Berry, whose father was a leading Presbyterian citizen, he bought the store and they gave their notes in payment.
Certain it was the Clary Grove gang would not molest Lincoln's store. On the other hand, they would have fought to protect it.
In fitting up this store Lincoln and Berry took out a tavern license, which gave them the right to sell liquor in small quantities. All stores kept liquor. Yet this fact did not make it seem right that one who did not drink himself, who knew the trouble it made others, who even agreed with Dr. Allen that it was poison, should keep a barrel of whiskey in the corner of his store, and more than one discussion between Abe Lincoln and the good doctor were engaged in during these days.
Several treasures came into possession of the junior member of the firm after Berry and Lincoln opened their store. Lincoln one day bought a barrel. What it contained he did not look to see. It was a good barrel. The man said it had a book or two down under the papers, and as he needed the few cents badly, the purchase price was paid and the barrel put aside.
When some weeks later the contents was poured out Abe Lincoln discovered a treasure. He deserted his store long enough to run over to Rutledge's to make known his wonderful good luck. His homely face was bright with pleasure and his dull, gray eyes were shining as he held out a worn and stained copy of Blackstone.
"Look! Look!" he cried, and in his joy he even tried to dance a jig.
Another rich possession that came to him was a volume of poems containing one that he especially liked, the title of which was "Immortality."
This poem Abe Lincoln wanted to read the Rutledges as they sat around the fire on an early fall evening.
But Davy did not like the sound of the first verse and asked for a story of the killing of Abe Lincoln's grandfather by Indians. When this was told he wanted to hear about the voodoo fortune-teller in New Orleans and the slave-markets and the ships in the harbor.
So Lincoln told these things while John Rutledge smoked and Mrs. Rutledge and Ann busied their fingers with their mending, meantime listening with as much interest as the children to their boarder's talk.
After Davy's stories had been told it was Sonny's turn. "Tell about when you were a little boy," he urged; "that's what I want."
Nothing could have been more acceptable to the entire family than this, for he had never said much about his own affairs.
"The little boy you ask me to tell about," he said, "lived far away in a dense forest; wild cats screamed down the ravines; wolves howled across the clearin'; bears growled in the under-brush. The house this little boy lived in was not much better than the cave or the den of the animals. It was built of logs but had no floor, no windows, and no skin hung to the door. In a loft above the one room was a nest of leaves and into this he climbed at night on pegs driven into the wall.
"Though he was very poor, this little boy was rich in one thing, and that was his mother. She toiled until her shoulders were stooped and thin, her face pale and her clear, gray eyes dim and sad, but she was never too tired to love her children, the boy and his little sister Sarah. She could read well and had brought into the wilderness three books: the Bible which she read daily, 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and Aesop's 'Fables.' Before the boy learned to read she told them stories from these books in the yellow light of a pine torch which burned upon the hearth, and the boy minded not the cry of wolves, nor wind, nor sleet, when he could hear these wonderful stories.
"The boy was taught many things that boys on the frontier must know. He learned early to skin animals and fix the hides for clothes but he was never a hunter. He some way felt that the animals had a right to life, just as he had. They knew what it was to be hungry and cold and to sleep in leaves. It was a funny notion, but the boy felt in a way they were his brothers and he never killed them.
"After he learned to read he spent hours on the floor lyin' in the firelight with the Bible spread before him, spellin' out the words and learnin' the verses until he had read the Book many times.
"When he was nine years old his mother made him a linsey-woolsey shirt and possum-skin cap to wear with his buckskin breeches and sent him away through the woods to school. He only went for a few weeks. The boys in this school put coals on terrapin's backs. He was not quick to learn from his books but he made speeches against this cruelty, and his first fight was with a boy for robbin' a bird's nest.
"In one school he went to for a short time later, a master named Crawford taught manners. He made one boy stand at the door. When thepupils came up they were taught to lift their hats and were introduced to each other. This teacher said manners were as important as book-knowledge.
"The boy only went to school a few weeks altogether, when he was hired out by his father to work from sunrise to sunset for twenty-five cents a day. Still he studied, and a cousin named Dennis Hanks helped him. They made ink with blackberry root and copperas. They made pens of turkey-buzzard feathers. When they had no paper, which was most of the time, they wrote on boards with charred sticks. The boy figured on a wooden shovel and scraped it off clean when it was too full to hold more figures.
"His mother was always interested in his effort to get an education. She always helped him. She was sorry for him because he could not go to school, but urged him to learn so that he would not always be in the backwoods.
"Once he borrowed from the Crawford man who taught the school a book entitled 'Weems' Life of Washington!' It told about our country's struggle for freedom, how the Hessians were fought and how Washington crossed the Delaware. He pored over it until the night.He took it up into a loft and put it in a chink so it would be handy for early-morning study. A rain-storm which arose in the night beat in on the book and swelled the covers. The boy took the book back to its owner the next mornin' and offered to buy it. The man made him pull fodder three days for it. The book belonged to the boy now. He read it over and over until he became well acquainted with the Father of his Country and began to dream dreams of what he might some day do."
Abe Lincoln had been talking in a reminiscent mood with a half-smile on his face. The smile now passed. He continued: "Then death came into the settlement and took several neighbors. The mother of the boy was stricken down. She was thirty-five miles from a doctor and her nearest neighbor was dead. Seven days she lay, her children doin' for her. Then she called the children to her bedside. To the boy she said, 'Be an honest and a faithful boy, be a good and tender man. Look after your sister.' Then death came into the shack of a house and took the patient mother.
"The boy's father built a coffin and dug a grave in the clearin' near the house, and herein the edge of the dense forest where the wild things lived the tired mother's body was put to rest. There was no preacher to say a last word, there was no music but the singin' and the sighin' of the trees. There was no one to cover the rude coffin with earth but the father. There were no mourners but the two children, holdin' hands beside the grave and callin' their mother to come back.
"After the mother had gone the little girl tried to cook and keep house. The boy went every day to the edge of the forest. Very soon the tangle began to reach over his mother's grave. He wanted her to have a funeral sermon. It was not that he thought she needed it. He was sure she was with God all straightened up and no longer thin but always smilin' and glad. But she would have wanted a sermon, she had spoken of it.
"So, the boy wrote a letter to a good Baptist minister his mother had known back in Kentucky and told him what was wanted. It was nearly one year later that he came a distance of eighty miles to preach the sermon. All the people in the country came; not before had a funeral been preached when a woman had solong been sleepin' in her grave. And, as they gathered about, their faces were wet with tears. The boy never forgot it, nor the preacher's words.
"That little boy is a man now. Early one mornin' years ago he went for a last time to the lonely grave and kneelin' there, promised his mother's God again that he would be honest and tender. And whatever that boy is now or ever may be, he will owe to that angel mother lyin' under the wild tangle at the edge of the forest with God's stars watchin' it until the judgment-day."
It was quite still around the low-burning fire when he ended his story. Then John Rutledge spoke abruptly, "Davy, don't you see the fire needs a log? Sonny, put Tige out, he's scratching down the house. Ann, bring a pitcher of cider and a plate of apples."
"Put a few sweet turnips in," Abe Lincoln added; "there's nothing better than a turnip."
CHAPTER XXI
ONLY WASTING TIME
AfterAbe Lincoln went to Rutledges' to board, time seemed to go faster and more pleasantly than ever in his life for him. John Rutledge was not only an agreeable gentleman, but he was an unusually well-informed man for a pioneer, and he and the little coterie of friends passed many winter evenings discussing topics of local and national interest.
Abe Lincoln spent very little time, however, at the Rutledge home. There were many debates and public meetings during the Winter, all of which he attended. His treasured Blackstone was being read and digested with the same thoroughness he had given Washington and the Constitution and the Bible. In addition to this he had secured, at no small outlay of time and expense, a grammar, said to be the only one in the county, which he was eagerly learning. He was also making the acquaintance of Shakespeare, with which he was immoderately delighted, and which he had announced he would learn by heart,as he had much of the text in the few books he possessed.
Besides his newly acquired Blackstone and Shakespeare, Lincoln was making trips to Springfield to borrow from Major Stuart what seemed to the country youth an inexhaustible wealth of books.
So it happened that, nights when there was no meeting of any kind, Abe Lincoln studied alone in the store or sometimes at the cooper shop, where warmth and light were given him.
The winter of the busy year came early to New Salem, and the hamlet was wrapped in a sheet of white which covered the roadways and fields, and draped the bluffs, and bent the boughs of the forest trees. The streams were muffled and, save where dark spots showed water moving sluggishly, were hidden under the white blanket. Cattle huddled by the haystacks and in barns, and in the log houses great fires blazed on the hearths and the store of candles was drawn on heavily to make light for the long evenings when the housewives used the time to spin and knit.
It was a bitter, cold night that Abe Lincoln after supper sat a few minutes by the fire. John Rutledge had gone to Springfield and would notreturn until next day. There was no meeting, and Mrs. Rutledge and Ann thought perhaps their boarder would spend the evening with them.
The wind blew low and seemed to hug close to the earth and move silently and stealthily as if trying to envelop some victim unaware. The snow crunched at the slightest tread. The hearth-fire had never seemed so good.
Abe Lincoln and Ann were alone in the room. He sat before the fire looking at the coals; she was getting her spinning ready.
Rising suddenly he took his hat and gray muffler from the peg on the wall.
"You're not going out, Abraham?" Ann inquired.
"Yes—I'm going over to Muddy Point."
"To Muddy Point?" Ann exclaimed setting her wheel down.
"Yes. I have it as straight as the crow lies that Snoutful Kelly's wife and children are actually sufferin' for food. Do you suppose your mother will fix up a basket?"
"Of course—but, Abraham—this is the coldest night of the winter! Mother!" Ann called rather excitedly, "come here!"
Mrs. Rutledge entered with a yellow bowl in which she was beating buckwheat batter to put by the fire to rise for breakfast cakes.
"Mother!" exclaimed Ann. "Abraham says he is going to Muddy Point."
Mrs. Rutledge turned and stared at Abe Lincoln a moment as if to make sure he were there. Then she said, "Are you joking, Abraham?"
"No, indeed—I'm goin'. Old Kelly's wife is sick and the children are hungry. I got it straight, and I can't sit by this warm fire so comfortable and think of them sufferin', I've got to go."
"But, Abraham Lincoln, there is not another person in New Salem, not a living soul of them, that would do it such a night as this."
Abe Lincoln laughed. Then he said, "That's all the more reason I must go. Will you send a basket?"
"To be sure—but it's an awful cold night and you haven't any long-coat."
"I'll walk fast enough to keep warm," he assured her. "If folks waited until all signs were right for doin' these little things, they'd never get done. We only pass this way but once,you know. Any good thing we can do we must do as we go—we don't come back."
Mrs. Rutledge stood looking at the tall, ungainly youth. For a moment his face seemed to be beautiful as the firelight fell on its strong lines. Then without a word she returned to the kitchen. In a moment she called Ann to come and help her. Abe went out, too, and together they fixed a basket and covered it well so that it would not be frozen when delivered.
Abe Lincoln was not warmly clad for cold weather. Ann thought of this as he stood before the fire holding his big square muffler.
"This will keep me warm," he said, wrapping it about his throat.
"You haven't any gun," Ann said. "Wolves killed three of William Green's pigs yesterday, and last week there was a great big catamount at Honey Grove."
"Do you remember what I did to Armstrong? I did a catamount that same way once. I always carry my weapons. God fastened them to me so tight I can't leave them."
Ann and her mother laughed. Abe Lincoln went out into the cold; and they heard the sharp crunching of the snow under his quick footsteps.
"I'm going to spin to-night, Mother," Ann said. "You don't care if I put the kettle on and make Abraham something hot to drink when he comes home, do you?"
"A very good idea," Mrs. Rutledge said. After she had done some mending she put the water pail by the fire, hung a roll of pork sausage on the wall, and, after having taken other precautions to insure a good warm breakfast when everything would be frozen up the next morning, she went to bed, and Ann was left to spin and to think.
Never was Ann Rutledge long alone that she was not singing. So now, as her wheel turned in the firelight, she began to sing a glad song full of life and hope and joy crowded into the words and melody of the old tune, "O, how I love Jesus!"
As the fire, eating its way through the back log, told the passage of time she stopped and listened. The kettle was steaming and on the kitchen table was a plate of food waiting to be brought in.
At last the crunching of the snow under heavy footfalls told her he was coming. But she only turned her wheel a little faster andsung a little heartier as he entered, lest he should know she had been watching.
"O, how I love Jesus!" Abe Lincoln hummed as he came by the fire and rubbed his hands; "go on with your song and your work. While I get warm I will tell you a story."
"Once there was a great camp-meetin'," he began, settling himself in John Rutledge's big splint-bottom chair. "There was an exhorter named Barcus who helped stir things up to the boilin'-over point. Among those who got shoutin' happy was a fair and fond sister. Brother Barcus and the sister both danced and shouted toward each other. When they met, he said, his benign countenance shinin' with joy, 'Sister, do you love Jesus?' 'Oh, yes,' she whispered rapturously; 'yes—yes—yes.'
"'Then kiss brother Barcus,' was this shepherd's advice to his beloved sheep."
Abe Lincoln settled back. Ann laughed. Then she said, "Abraham, we are bad; you for telling such a story and I for listening."
"No, we are good," he corrected, "you for not askin' the woman's name and I for not tellin' whether she kissed Brother Barcus."
Again Ann laughed. Then she glanced atAbe Lincoln and from him to the peg where his hat hung.
"Where is your muffler?" she asked. "You didn't lose it, did you?"
The tall man looked into the fire a moment before saying, "No—I gave it away."
"Gave it away?"—and there was a tone of disappointment in her voice.
"Yes. I'll tell you about it. When I got out to Kelly's I found the poor woman in bed, and a new-born baby. The little thing didn't have any clothes or any warm blanket to wrap around it. I looked at that fine, thick, warm, wool muffler all made by your hands, and I hated to give it up. But that baby, Ann—it was such a little helpless thing and so pitiful, and its mother's eyes looked in such a hungry way at that gray muffler, I couldn't help it. So I wrapped it up myself. And I felt that if you had been there you would have done the wrappin'. In fact, I could see you foldin' the warm cover around that poor little thing. You would have done it—wouldn't you, Ann?"
"Yes, Abraham."
"I was sure of it. Perhaps you'll make me another some time. Now go on with yourspinnin' and your song. It is the best music a tired man could ever hear."
Ann turned the wheel a few times, but she did not sing. "When a woman gets loving Jesus," he observed, "it's a sign she's lovin' somebody else. Who do you love, Ann?"
This unexpected question took Ann quite by surprise.
"You know as well as I do that I am engaged to marry John McNeil. And don't you think he is one of the best young men in town?" There was a suggestion of appeal in the question.
"I am sure he is—one of the very best in the county. But tell me, Ann, what it is to love. You know the spellin' book definition. It's in the Bible, too, that love is stronger than death. But they both came out of somebody's mind first, somebody who loved. Tell me about it."
"Why should I know?"
He mused a moment, then he said as if to the fire instead of Ann: "It won't be until Iknow, that I promise to marry a woman."
Ann glanced at Lincoln. He seemed for the moment unconscious of her existence. She called him from his reflections by speaking his name.
"Abraham," she said as the wheel spunslowly, "I have a secret to tell you, a confession to make."
He was all attention in a minute. She dropped her hands in her lap and moved a little way from behind the wheel.
"Do you remember the camp-meeting, and Brother Cartwright saying you were a deluded sinner, and saying you were worth praying for?"
"Did he? I believe he did."
"Well, since that night, every day I have been remembering you at the throne of grace, but I have made up my mind it is only wasting time. I still don't understand how anybody can be saved and not believe in hell, and you do some things that are not right, like the day at the quilting-bee, which was not fair to John McNeil. My Bible says, 'by their fruits shall men be known,' and, Abraham, your life bears fruit, much better fruit and more of it than do some of those who call you a sinner. So I've decided it's just wasting my time and God's to pray for you any more."
In the moment of silence that followed this speech, Ann turned back to the wheel.
"Don't spin," he said; "there's something I want to say."
She folded her hands in her lap and waited. There was no sound in the room save the sputter of the fire. A bit of charred wood fell into the ashes. Lincoln took the tongs and threw it back, then he sat looking at it.
Presently he turned to Ann. "And you have been rememberin' me at the throne of Grace? I don't know anything about thrones and mighty little about grace, for the grace of life has not been my portion. But this is what I want to say. If a man can get to God through the intercession of a true and noble and pure-hearted man, as all Christians say they do, I don't see why a man can't get to God through the pleadin's of a true and noble and pure-hearted woman."
Ann looked at him questioningly.
"I don't know what you mean, Abraham," she said.
"I mean just this—if ever I reach the throne of grace where just men get nearer glimpses of God, it will be through—Ann Rutledge. Do you understand this?"
Ann's eyes had not for an instant left the figure of the man who was speaking. The homely, bronzed face in the frame of black hair, the slightly stooping shoulders, the big handsstretched at full length on the arms of the chair, made a firelight picture fascinating to the girl. He had asked a question—she had not answered it, yet she leaned forward, and after studying his face a moment she said, "Abraham, you look as if you were starving. I must get you something to eat"; and she hurried to the kitchen.
Lincoln leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. "It wouldn't be fair to John McNeil," he seemed to hear her saying again, and with a deep sigh he said in his heart: "Separated by the rules of the game of honor."
"Ann," said Mrs. Rutledge the next morning, "what did you and Abe Lincoln find to talk about so long last night?"
"Camp-meetings and mufflers and Kelly's new baby," Ann answered.
"You must be careful, Ann," her mother said. "Your word is out to John McNeil and he has a good start in life. Abe is a fine boy and honest as the day is long, but he hasn't got anything to take care of a woman on. Besides, he does all sorts of queer things. For all we know he may yet take to writing poetry. You must not give him any encouragement. Since thatquilting-bee I've had some thoughts. He wasn't there to learn to quilt. He'd be fearful hard to get shut of if he got in love good and hard."
"He has no idea of love at all," Ann hastened to assure her mother. "He doesn't even know what it means. He told me so."
"That's the worst kind to get stirred up. The kind that just naturally knows how are always having attacks of love the same as they do attacks of measles. But the kind that has to be waked up and taught by some woman have terrible bad cases. Don't you get Abe Lincoln stirred up."
"He doesn't care for girls, anyway—no particular ones. He likes books and is not the kind to fall in love."
"Love can pipe through any kind of a reed," was Mrs. Rutledge's answer. "Don't stir Abe Lincoln up."
CHAPTER XXII
TOWN TOPICS
Normany months had elapsed after Abraham Lincoln went into the "store business" before those interested began to feel that John McNeil had not been mistaken when he said Lincoln would not be a success as a business man.
After everybody else in town was questioning whether or not the store was making money, Lincoln himself declared it was petering out.
This in no way interfered with his story-telling and studying hours. The store was head-quarters for political and all other kinds of discussions, and study-hall for the most unwearying scholar in the village.
So it happened that when Abraham should have been devising schemes to make money he was memorizing Blackstone, debating some point of Constitutional law, or working out some rule of grammar.
Nor was this the worst. While Lincoln was letting the store go to ruin for lack of business skill and application, his partner, Berry, was drinking up the wet portion of the stock.
John McNeil looked on with disgust and made comments, many of them to Ann Rutledge. She could not deny them, for she had found Abe Lincoln a most absent-minded and in some ways a most unsatisfactory boarder.
More than once she had rung the bell at meal-time with no success at bringing Abe Lincoln to the table. Once when she was sure he must be half-starved she went to the store to bring him. She found him stretched on the counter with head propped up against a roll of calico, deeply buried in a dingy, leather-bound book. When she finally drew attention to herself from the book he said: "Run back home, Ann, Blackstone is making a point. I'll be there in a few minutes."
Determined that he should eat, after waiting an hour she went back to the store carrying a plate of food. "Abraham Lincoln," she said, "you've got to eat."
"What for?" he asked absently.
"Because if you don't you'll get to be nothing more than a human grape-vine and you won't even be as good looking as you are now."
"What's that?" he said, looking up afterfinishing the sentence he was reading. "Say that again."
She repeated her remark. Lincoln laughed. Then he said, "Put the feed on the molasses barrel. I'll get it in a minute," and he turned back to the book.
When the Lincoln and Berry mercantile company had so far gone to the bad that the end was in sight, the nominal owners sold out to a couple of men who paid them, as they had paid, with notes.
Free from the store Lincoln was now ready for another occupation, and at this time was appointed postmaster, a very small job since the mail came but twice a week in good weather, with pay accordingly.
It gave him time for study, however, which he continued on his rounds of delivery, for with the three or four letters that might come in a week placed carefully in the top of his hat, he would start out to deliver them. Between stops he would mount a fence where the rails crossed under the shade of some tree, and here he would read and reflect and memorize, oblivious of time or men or finances.
There was always plenty to talk about in NewSalem, and for that matter plenty to do the talking. The last baby's first tooth had a significance, for by the baby's age might be forecasted the time of the next one's arrival. The last tooth of the oldest citizen was likewise of importance, as it called out all the best recipes for mush and other nourishing soft edibles.
Among the more important news was the announcement, after he had served some months as postmaster, that to this official duty Abe Lincoln was to add the most important one of surveyor. He had already received the appointment and was taking lessons in figures from Mentor Graham, preparatory to starting out with his rod and chain.
It seemed to make no difference in Abe Lincoln's popularity that he had failed as a business man. He was still considered the best man in town, the best judge or referee, an authority in disputes and a peace-maker. He was the best-informed man on general subjects and the gentlest as well as the strongest man among them.
His wider acquaintance throughout the county served to enlarge the number of his friends, and New Salem politicians again decided to make him their candidate for the Legislature.
In addition to his new professional work, Abe Lincoln had entered the ranks of the reformer in a manner as strenuous as it was unique.
Having become exasperated with the drunkenness of Snoutful Kelly and the consequent neglect of his family, Abe Lincoln and a sufficient corps of assistants determined to get some sense into his head by a new way. Accordingly they captured Kelly while lying by the roadside in a drunken sleep, and removing him quietly to the top of the long, sloping street at New Salem, proceeded to fasten him up, in an empty whiskey barrel, which they started on its way down hill.
Long before the barrel reached the bottom of the road it gave forth such sounds as never disgraced a music-box, and the men waiting at the foot of the hill roared with laughter as the barrel went its way down, emitting howl after howl, and yell after yell, as it bumped its course to the bottom.
When it had reached its stopping-point, Lincoln stood it on its end and through the bung hole called Kelly's attention to the ducking he had once got with such salutary effect and made him swear by the God above him, and those present, that he would never touch another drop, lest a more horrible fate should befall him.
When the victim of reform crawled out he was brushed off by Lincoln and given a handful of change, with instructions to proceed back where he got his whiskey, which he had relieved himself of in the barrel, and buy some meat and flour to take home.
This reform experiment had not been advertised. But it was town talk the next day. The men generally said it was a good thing for old Kelly. Some of the women disagreed. Ann Rutledge said the man who had sold whiskey had no business punishing the man who drank it.
After this came a few days of another kind of discussion of Abe Lincoln. It was rumored that he was studying to be a lawyer. Opinion was divided as to whether this would make a man of him or ruin him.
Mentor Graham and Dr. Allen were agreed that he already knew the Constitution as well as any lawyer in Springfield and would make a good lawyer. To others it seemed a pity that an otherwise honest citizen should aspire to nothing better than being a "limb of the law," and when Ole Bar heard it he said with a touch of real sadness, "Lord God, has Abry Linkhorn fallen to this? I'd ruther he'd a been a bar."
Whatever might be the outcome, New Salem never worried long over any one matter. There was too much coming on afresh.
The next topic, and one that especially interested the female portion of the community, was the discovery that John McNeil's partner was also in love with Ann Rutledge.
This leaked out in an unexpected way.
Abe Lincoln being everybody's friend and knowing how to read and write, was often called on to write letters for less educated lovers, for children and sometimes for business men. He also read for those who could not read. This was expected of him as postmaster. One day a schoolchild brought a roll of written matter to him. It was composed of bills from the Hill and McNeil store. But inside was a letter from Hill to McNeil charging that if McNeil had played fair, his partner, too, might have had some chance to win the fair Ann Rutledge.
When Abraham Lincoln read this letter he was for some reason well pleased, and he understood why Hill was always so exceptionally nice to Ann Rutledge and gave her better bargainsthan his close and business-like partner would have thought of doing.
Yet he felt sure that Ann did not know of his burning affection or she would not so often have gone to the store or accepted so many favors of him.
After some consideration his sense of humor got the best of him and he decided to take the papers to McNeil himself. This he did. When asked if he had read the letter he admitted without hesitation that he had, and offered a friendly bit of jollification.
Immediately there were words between Hill and McNeil. Lincoln tried to act as pacifier and the letter was put in the stove. Several bystanders had heard the difficulty, however, and were not slow to get its meaning. Hill was in love with Ann Rutledge. He charged McNeil with some unfair advantage of him. The news spread like a delicious ripple, much to the embarrassment of Ann Rutledge herself, who was informed of it by Nance Cameron before sun-down.
But the town gossip which went farthest and quickest and was to last longest, started about a week later when John McNeil disposed of hisinterest in his store and his farm, and suddenly left New Salem.
It was reported that he left town on his best horse, that Mrs. Rutledge and Ann had seen him off, and that he had said he was going back East to get his family.
"What did he sell the best farm in Sangamon County for if he expected to return? Was he still engaged to Ann Rutledge—or was their engagement broken off? Had Hill had anything to do with it? Or did McNeil think Abe Lincoln liked Ann?" These and many other questions were asked.
Abe Lincoln asked no questions, but for the time Blackstone and Shakespeare, his grammar and his poem were alike forgotten, and he enjoyed the half-fearful sensation of one walking in the dark toward a sunrise.
CHAPTER XXIII
ALIAS McNEIL
Of allthe people in New Salem who were surprised at the sudden and mysterious leave-taking of the lover of Ann Rutledge, no one was so mystified and troubled as Ann herself. Especially was she perplexed and troubled about a promise he had exacted from her the last night they were together.
"Ann," he said, "you've promised to marry me—haven't you?"
Ann looked at him questioningly. "Of course—why do you ask such a question?"
"Will you wait for me if I should go away for a time?"
"Surely you believe I will."
"Yes, you'll wait unless Abe Lincoln gets you while I'm away."
"Abe Lincoln," she repeated. "What makes you say that?"
"Abe Lincoln has not been keeping company with any of the girls, and it's not their fault. No more is it natural for a young fellow as full of life as Abe Lincoln is not to like the girls—except when they likeone. I'm not blind. There's no other girl in New Salem like you; maybe no other one good enough for Abe Lincoln. He'll want something extra on account of his book-learning. Abe's a good fellow, but he's lazy as a dog, always lying around when he ought to be laying by some dollars."
"But he is studying and reading when he is lying around. When anybody's mind is at work they're not lazy."
"You always take up for Abe Lincoln I notice—ever since the day his ark got stuck on the dam. I suppose it's because he was born under a lucky star."
"What's lucky about Abraham Lincoln?"
"Everything. The way he got to bring the steamboat down the river; the way he got to be captain in the Black Hawk war. And now they says he is certain to go to the Legislature."
"But it's not luck. It's because he can do things. 'I will prepare myself,' he often says, 'and when my chance comes I will be ready.'"
"Yes, that's what he says, and that's exactly the reason he'll get you while I'm away."
"But I have promised you, John."
"Out of sight out of mind," he answered.
"Do you think I would forget a solemn promise?" There was surprise and something of resentment in her tone.
"Not exactly that, though Abe Lincoln could talk black into white if he took a notion. But a fellow don't care to have a girl stick to him just on account of a sacred promise."
"What makes you talk so strangely?" she asked. "And tell me, where are you going? You haven't told me this yet."
"I'm going back where I came from—back where I left my people when I came out here."
"That was in New York somewhere."
"Yes, in New York somewhere. I expect to come back and bring them."
"When are you going?"
"To-morrow."
"To-morrow! So soon?" she exclaimed in surprise and pain. "Will you be gone long?"
"Maybe—I don't know how long. But before I go I've a secret to tell you."
"Something you have never told me?"
"Something I have never told anybody. Something you must not tell."
"Not even my mother? I tell her everything."
"Not even your mother, nor father."
"What is it, John?" and Ann's face was troubled as she asked the question.
"You solemnly promise you will not tell—at least not until I come back?"
"I'd like to know what it is before I promise. It doesn't seem right to keep things from Father and Mother. I never do."
"Not even my secrets? Don't you trust me, Ann?"
"Of course I do, John."
"Then promise."
Ann was sorely puzzled. Her lips twitched.
"Promise," he repeated, "and don't cry. It's nothing to cry about."
Still Ann hesitated. "Father would think it strange."
"How can he think it strange if he knows nothing about it?"
"I promise," she said solemnly.
"All right, then, my name is not John McNeil at all."
Ann stared at him a moment. Then with something like a gasp she said, "Your name is not John McNeil? What is it? Who are you?"
"Just this. I came here from—nobody knowsjust where, not even you, Ann. I named myself John McNeil because I wanted to lose myself."
"What for?" she questioned mechanically.
"Back where I came from my folks are poor—these no-account poor that every enterprising man despises. I wanted to get something together and knew I should never be able to do it if they learned where I was, for I was eternally being called on to help them and keep them from starving when I was where they could call on me."
"Have you heard nothing from them since you came here?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, John! how could you? Perhaps your mother has wanted for something."
"She would have wanted just the same if I had been there."
"She might even be dead."
"I don't think so and hope not. At any rate, I have made some money. Now I'm going back to get the rest of them and I want you to wait for me until I come back. But your name will never be Ann McNeil."
"What will it be?" she asked with pale lips.
"Well," he said, looking at her with a half-smile, "if it's not Mrs. Abraham Lincoln before I return, it will be Mrs. James McNamra."
"James McNamra," she repeated as if puzzled. "I never heard the name."
"It is my name. You will get used to it."
Ann was silent. She was making an effort to choke back great lumps that kept rising in her throat. Then the tears came and ran over the rims of her dark, blue eyes.
"How funny women are," McNeil said. "There's nothing to cry about, and I want to see you laughing the last time."
"I want to tell Mother and Father," she sobbed.
"You said you wouldn't. Are you going to keep your promise?"
"Yes," she answered.
"Then kiss me good-night. To-morrow I will ride past here on my way to Springfield. But there'll be no kissing then. The town folks will have enough to talk about as it is."
After McNeil had left town Ann began watching the post-office, and the postmaster rendered her careful help in the matter.
But days went by and no letter came. Thefair face of Ann Rutledge took on a worried look, and had it not been for the kindly assistance of the postmaster the gossips might have known more of Ann's correspondence—or lack of it, than they had yet been able to learn.
The strain on Ann, the worst part of it being the secret, which to her was fast coming to seem little short of a crime against her good father and mother, began to tell on her. She laughed little and sang less. She was more seldom seen with the young people.
Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge noticed this, as well as did Abraham Lincoln, and one night, when Ann's face showed that she had been particularly disappointed because of no letter, Abe Lincoln suggested that Ann learn grammar with him out of his highly prized little book. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge accepted the offer as a special favor.
So it happened that Ann and Abe were left together, and with the precious grammar spread on Ann's little work-table they sat down to their task, he on one side, she on the other. The book was not large, and bending over it the mop of coarse, black hair all but touched the crown of fine-spun gold.
"I will be the teacher," Abe Lincoln said after they had looked through the book, which was the only one of the kind in New Salem.
"We will new study the verb 'to love,'" and turning the pages he found the place.
"I love," he said, looking across at Ann.
Her eyes were on the book.
"Next is 'You love'?" He spoke the words as a question with the accent on the "you."
"Say it now, Ann, just as I have, and look at your teacher. First, 'I love.'"
"I love," she repeated.
"Might be better," he said. "Now the next, and look at your teacher and repeat after me, 'You love'?"
As Ann repeated the question her face took on a touch of pink.
"Very good—very good, indeed. Now the next is, 'We love.' We will say that together with the accent on the 'we.' Now—one—two—three—'we,'" and he beat three times slowly with his big hand "Ready, 'We love.'"
There was much more emphasis in the teacher's statement than in that of the pupil. The effect on Ann was to cause a merry laugh. "Ann," said Abe Lincoln, "I'm goin' to giveyou this grammar. I know it by heart—by heart, Ann—especially the verb 'I love.' I want you to learn it"; and he wrote across the top, "Ann Rutledge is learning grammar," and pushed it across the table to her.
"What a splendid present!" she said with a smiling face. "How I wish I had something to give you, Abraham—would you take my little Bible—and read it?"
"Oh, Ann!—would you give it to me?" he asked with the joy of a child.
"You won't give it away like you did the muffler, will you?"
"Wouldn't you be willin' if I should run across a bigger sinner than Abe Lincoln?" he answered laughing.
From a chest of drawers she took a little, brown book and handed it to him.
"It must be marked, Ann," and, taking the pencil he had written on the grammar with, he handed it to her, saying, "Now we will find a place where the verb 'to love' is found."
The quick ease with which he turned to the passage he had in mind surprised Ann. With the open page before him he said, "You arereligious, Ann. You obey the commands of the Holy Scriptures, don't you?"
"I try to."
"And you'll do anything in reason you are told to by the Book?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Take your pencil and mark this"; and, with his long forefinger pointing to the text, he read impressively, "'This is my commandment, that you love one another.'"
Whether in the Scriptures or out of it, Ann and Abe soon found something to laugh at. "Ann is laughing," Mr. Rutledge said to his wife. "How good it sounds! What on earth has been the matter with her?"
"She hasn't heard from John McNeil," Mrs. Rutledge answered.
"McNeil seems to be a good fellow and unusually successful," John Rutledge observed after a moment of reflection, "but Ann's not married to him yet."
CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE CELLAR
Aftermonths of waiting Ann Rutledge received a letter from John McNeil. It was a straightforward explanation of the delay, mentioning sickness along the way, and other obstacles.
Ann Rutledge was delighted. In some way it seemed to lift a burden and answer a question.
Nance Cameron had the pleasure of starting the news of the letter, and its satisfactory contents, which allayed gossip, and for a time Ann was quite herself again. But no more letters came, and Ann was soon again cast down by the strangeness of her lover's silence. Once when she had hurried to the post-office after the weekly mail had arrived only to be told by the postmaster there was no letter, she made an appeal to him which touched his heart.
"He ought to write to me," she half sobbed. "Everybody is wondering about it. I don't want people to know he never writes. Don't tell it."
The postmaster promised, but Ann's troubled face haunted him, and he found himself gettingthoroughly indignant with McNeil, even though glad beyond expression that he was treating her just as he was.
As the days and weeks went by Ann found the burden of the secret weighing heavily on her conscience, and the thought kept intruding itself that since he had deceived her in one way he might have done so in other ways. It was hard to think this, and yet it was almost as easy to believe as that his name was not McNeil and that he had been gone months without writing. She felt that she had done very wrong to promise to keep a secret, and such a grave and important secret, from her parents. Yet she had promised, and, torn between the feeling that she must confide in her parents and that she must keep her promise, she grew pale and quiet and unlike the laughing, singing Ann of a few months previous. Her parents noticed this with concern, and it hurt the heart of Abe Lincoln, yet none of them surmised the real trouble.
One day after Ann had been her unreal self for several months, Lincoln came home for supper early and went into the kitchen to help Mrs. Rutledge.
"I want a pan of potatoes," she said."They're in the short bin near the door. I sent Ann for them half an hour ago, but she must have gone somewhere else."
"Mrs. Rutledge," said Abe Lincoln as he tucked the pan under his arm, "what ails Ann?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Her father and I have wondered. It's something about John McNeil I think. I suppose she's heard the talk. I can't understand John McNeil. He's too fine a young fellow to do anything mean I'm sure. I hope John Rutledge don't turn against him. He's slow to rile up, but the fur flies when he does get mad. Run on now after the taters."
Abe Lincoln made his way down the cellar-steps softly. The door was not closed. As he entered he thought he saw some object move in one of the dark corners. Opening the door a little more he looked into the dark. When his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom he saw the outlines of a human figure huddled together, and putting down his pan, with shoulders and head bent, he walked over the hard, earthen floor to the dark corner.
Here he found Ann Rutledge sitting on the edge of a turnip-box with her head leaning against the log and earthen wall.
"Ann—Ann Rutledge," he said softly. A sob was his only answer.
"Ann—Ann," he said, bending over her.
"Go away, please," she said.
"No, I will not go away. You are in trouble. I want to help you."
"You cannot—nobody can help me," and again her voice was choked with sobs.
"Of course somebody can help you. Tell me about it. Perhaps I can help you."
"But I cannot tell—my trouble—is—is—a secret."
"A secret," Lincoln said—"a secret—who from?"
"From everybody in the world but John McNeil. I promised him I would not tell—not even my mother."
"He got you to swear to a secret you could not confide in your mother?" and Lincoln seemed aghast.
"Yes—and I never had a secret from Father and Mother before."
"Ann—Ann Rutledge!" and Lincoln's voice was no longer gentle; "a secret from a girl's mother is never the right kind of a secret. A mother is the one person on earth no honorableman would want secrets kept from. It is wrong Ann—wrong."
"I believe it is. It is wearing me out—it is breaking my heart—I feel that I cannot keep it—and yet I promised."
"Ann Rutledge!" Lincoln was bending over her and there was a tone in his voice that compelled her to look up. In the gloom his face had taken on a strange, white cast and something of the expression it had borne when Jack Armstrong had tried the unfair trick.
"Ann Rutledge," he whispered under his breath, "has John McNeil in any way wronged you? If he has—if he has—I—will choke the life out of him, and that without warnin'."
"Oh, Abraham!" she cried, "don't talk so. I don't know whether he has wronged me or not. That's what the secret's about—I don't know and I wish I could die right here in this cellar," and again she turned her face to the wall and sobbed.
Speechless, Abraham Lincoln looked down upon her. His face was pale, his teeth set—his great fists were clenched, yet what could he do?